


In This War Without An End

by plume_bob



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, post episode 4.10, seriously excessive swearing, sort of???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plume_bob/pseuds/plume_bob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Carrie, are you getting in the car or not?”</p><p>“Actually, I'm thinking about shooting you right now.”</p><p>“Well until you make up your mind—” He gestures, all familiar drawling sarcasm, and Carrie opens the door and climbs in. At least if she's with him, Quinn's far less likely to put himself in immediate danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This War Without An End

**Author's Note:**

> Post-episode 4.10 with 4.11 promo spoilers. Should not be taken as me attempting to guess the plot of the next episode (I'd be pretty shocked if this is how it went down), nor me thinking I can write espionage drama. I just pieced together spoilers to create an excuse for these two idiots to indulge in a bit of angsty hopeful romance.

 

 

 

“I cannot lose anyone else.”

She thinks it was the wrong thing to say. Right thing in her head, the truth, but not what Max needs to hear.

“This isn't about you, it's about what's right!” Max rages. “Quinn's not some innocent civilian you dragged into this.”

“No, he's not,” she concedes, “but he is out there on his own and there's no way he's gonna come back from this.”

“He's an assassin.”

Carrie just _wishes_ people would stop throwing that and all its shitty implications around. Wishes she could stop hearing Quinn, voice in her head over and over, _I was a bad guy,_ like that makes it a-okay then. Quinn's warning signs came thick and fast but she hadn't listened to any of them, thinking they were aimed at her and they were, but it was more than that; Quinn trying to passive-aggressively confess his sins, trying to subconsciously prepare her in some way for the possibility he might turn rabid.

It was always in him; she shouldn't have dismissed it so easily.

“He wanted out, Max. And you're wrong, I did, I dragged him back in, and now he's off the reservation, he's not stable.” She chokes there; it's guilt, thick and raw like something uncooked in her throat. “I was responsible for Fara and she died. Don't let the same thing happen to Quinn because you wanna use him to fight a battle that can't be won.”

Max's face falls, all his weight slumping against his hands on the tabletop. “All the years I've known you, you've never once backed down from a battle.”

“Well that should tell you how fucked this is.”

“I don't care,” he admits, stuttered out of him like shame. “I don't want you to stop him.”

She thinks fast; Quinn's too good to get caught in the time-frame she's got so Max is literally her only window here. “What if I promised to listen to what he had to say?” Max frowns, so she quickly fires on, “If I could talk to him, if I could be sure he's in his right Goddamn mind, then maybe we could actually figure something out.”

“Are you saying you'll help him?”

“If I think he's okay, then yeah, I'll do what I can.”

“And if he's not.”

“Then we don't lose shit because he'd be dead or in custody before he got anywhere near Haqqani anyway.” Carrie can see Max edging towards the drop, she just needs one push to get him over. “You know what that means, right? Intelligence has a hit on him, if he gets caught he either gets immediately executed or he spends the rest of his life in a Pakistani prison.”

Max doesn't like Quinn, is the thing. It's not a matter of appealing to a personal connection, it's a matter of laying Quinn on Max's conscience right alongside Fara.

And it works. It feels like shit, but all that matters is that it works. Even after everything, Carrie can't deny the part of herself that knows the simple beauty of that.  


  


~  


  


She turns her back for half a second, so fucking _pissed_ she can't even look at him, giving the order to have him forcibly restrained—

And then Quinn's dropped both the men and she should've _known,_ she should've seen that one coming.

Not the hand he seals around her throat, though, and she honestly thinks for a split-second that he's gonna kill her, look in his eyes like a fever burning, like she's never seen on him before.

Except he pulls her close, tells her to listen for once in her life, and with a numb hysteria that apparently comes with Quinn's very real hand around her trachea, Carrie wants to ask him who the hell he thinks isn't listening here.

But she can't, not before he aims his gun over her shoulder. Carrie falls instinctively forward, gripping Quinn's t-shirt and pressing her face into his chest to muffle the shots, the hand he'd used to choke her curled protectively around the back of her head.

“What the _fuck—_ “

He snaps, “They followed you, get in the Goddamn car,” and before she gets to check _who_ fucking followed her and whether or not they're full of holes, Quinn's shoving her towards the vehicle.

Probably ISI. Quinn's a dead man, Carrie too now. If they survive this, she's gonna step right off the plane home and straight into a Supermax and Quinn's gonna be in the cell right next door.

Her ears are ringing, she could fucking skin him alive right now, anger too hot to articulate. She slams her hands against the passenger door Quinn's trying to herd her into, attempting to put the brakes on this horrorshow.

“I didn't shoot them, will you unclench,” Quinn tells her quickly, far too calm for someone who's acting like a Goddamn mutt off the leash. “I shot _at_ them, there's a difference, now will you get in before they come back with a fucking army and return the favor.” Carrie stares at him, utterly lost for words. “I'm not crazy, and I'm not suicidal. You weren't supposed to be anywhere near this, Carrie.”

“ _This_ —“

“Did Max give you the bag?”

She doesn't mean to, it's a purely reflexive action, but Carrie glances to the trunk of the car she'd come to drag Quinn's sorry ass home in and he's efficiently frisking the knocked-out driver's pockets and retrieving it and what's she supposed to do to stop him? Clearly talking him down off the ledge isn't an option, she'd have about as much luck beating her head against a wall. She could shoot him but he's a little too big for her to move unconscious.

“Carrie, are you getting in the car or not?”

“Actually I'm thinking about shooting you right now.”

“Well until you make up your mind—” He gestures, all familiar drawling sarcasm, and Carrie opens the door and climbs in. At least if she's with him, Quinn's far less likely to put himself in immediate danger.

He tears out of the garage, cooling it on the roads, and Carrie's hands are shaking, she hadn't even realized. Her job is assessing people, finding the cracks and cementing them with whatever necessary filler it takes to bring them in line. Quinn's a well-read map all torn up, she can't read him without time to put the pieces back together, without relearning a few things.

“I know where Haqqani's seeking medical attention,” he says eventually, like a peace offering.

“Holed up with his armed guard full of guys using your picture as target practice, yeah,” she fires back, still angry, no point in trying to hide that from Quinn of all people.

His jaw tics; it gives her a petty, momentary satisfaction. “I'm not saying come with me.”

“I'm in the car, aren't I?”

“I'll drop you off somewhere, you can tell the agency I kidnapped you or whatever.”

“What the—have you reverted back to factory settings or something? Is this some latent conditioning shit?” She turns, looks out of the window. “You have lost your fucking mind.”

Quinn has nothing to say to that apparently, so she's getting the silent treatment now. It takes a pretty sizeable amount of self-control to compartmentalize the sheer mountainous frustration she's holding onto; it's not all directed at Quinn, not even most of it in fact, but she'd felt just about able to endure defeat an hour ago and now Quinn's making her itch for something impossible; the kind of fuck-everything dedication to duty she'd passionately believed in that gets more and more distant with every new screw-over.

“Look, I'm not saying you haven't done a good job—“ Carrie starts, and there's so many things she should've known better than today and that was one of them; she realizes that even as the words are coming out of her mouth.

“Don't fucking feed me a line, Carrie. I'm not one of your assets.”

She grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don't even know why I tried that.”

She does, actually. Because she's fucking _tired_ and running on autopilot, brain filing through appropriate responses and actions because there's so little of anything real left in her anymore. She's drained to the last pint and Quinn's baying for the rest like a bloodhound.

“What do you want from me, Quinn?”

Carrie's hardly asked before he's on her like he's just been waiting for that question. “I want you to give a shit.”

“Oh,” she bites out. “As opposed to all the other times when I _haven't_ given a shit, is that what you mean?”

“No, the exact fucking opposite, you know exactly what I mean.”

“You want me to come along on your suicide mission then, is that it?”

“You can dress it up in all the rhetoric you want, but you've given up,” he accuses, all self-righteous fucking hot air and it splits her down the middle, fogs her better senses because _how dare he_ —

“No, Quinn, _you_ gave up. I made you give a shit again because you had one foot out the door, if it wasn't for me you wouldn't even care what that fucker did to us!”

And Carrie realizes her third mistake of the day; Quinn's eyes bright on the road but brighter on her when he glances over.

“It'd sure be nice if that fucker paid, huh.”

He's a dirty bastard, goading her like that when she's so strung-out. She feels like she's being recruited, it's ridiculous, it's _galling_.

It's also kind of thrilling, like giving herself over to the stimuli of the job again, the raw bones of it buried down under so much window dressing. Quinn's a tense line of heat and purpose beside her, the most dangerous version of him Carrie's ever know, and she likes it. If they'd wound him up nice and tight and pointed him in this direction from the start, he might've slaughtered a visible line through the enemy already; Carrie's very own human missile.

It's one of the sickest thoughts she's ever had, and more so because of its appeal.

Lockhart's whole shtick has been getting people off the ground and remote control kill-machines in the air and she's never thought him so naïve than right now, looking at Quinn.

But that's just cause and effect, it's not about the end game and Carrie finally gets that now. Quinn wanted out because he was cracking and Carrie's created a problem, not a solution. She won't be responsible for sending another person she cares about into a warzone, no matter what the potential benefits.

Even if Carrie can't stop him, she can't rightfully look at him and see an opportunity. It's the road right back down, back from the place she's just clawed herself out of. It'd be so easy, just one misstep—

“Stop the car.”

He looks at her, wary. “Why?”

“You're not actually kidnapping me, so stop.”

It's a safe spot, far enough out of the crowded sectors that there's nothing around and she can be positive they're not being tailed, a good visible half-mile of road stretching off in both directions.

Quinn lets the car drift a little before he brakes, looking actually nervous for the first time since Carrie found him. His reason for that's hard to pin down but she's got a powerful hunch it's because he's scared she's gonna leave him; an emotional reaction instead of a logistical one.

Carrie gets out, moving slowly to the car front and perching on the hood. It's a clear invitation and she waits, head tipped back against the sun, until Quinn accepts it.

He sits next to her, head down, hands curled around the curved metal edge. She can feel his pinky finger pressed against her thigh, that one point of contact. It's like a jump lead into her heart; this is _Quinn_ and he's ticking down like a bomb, this one live-or-die moment and then he's in the wind and Carrie might never see him again—she might _never see him again_.

“This is revenge, Quinn.”

“Or justice.”

“You're not that idealistic, come on.”

“Okay, and so what? He deserves it.”

What falls out of her mouth isn't the cool logic she was hoping for; seeing Quinn like this in the bright light of day is corrupting. “But _you_ don't!”

“No, Carrie, you're wrong, this is exactly what I deserve.”

“Tell me why.”

“I already told you—“

She's stepping over his stretched out leg, planting herself firmly in front of him so he has to look up at her before he can pull that shit. “Bunch of vague, half-assed, self-hating bullshit. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me why you're sacrificing yourself to this. Or better yet—“ Shit, now she's veering into dangerous territory, except she can't seem to fucking _stop_. “Why don't you tell me why you thought you could run off and I wouldn't be right behind you.”

His eyes go wide, blinking like she's thrown something in his face. Because that's apparently the foundation of it, the stinging truth; Quinn had seriously thought she'd just _leave him_ and it's one of the shittiest things he's ever done.

“Is that what you think of me?” she asks, bleeding honesty now but it fucking hurts.

He drags a hand over his mouth, against his chest. “No.”

“I was gonna drop a bomb on Saul, you figured I'd throw you to the wolves too, right?”

“I didn't even think about that.”

“Fuck you, don't insult me. You must've considered what'd happen when I realized you were AWOL. You thought I'd cut and run.”

His face is stubborn, lips pressed tight, that jaw tic again. “You wanted to go home, Carrie. So why the hell didn't you?”

“Because I couldn't fucking leave you here,” she seethes, tempted to actually grab him and shove him, hurt him in some way.

“Look, I get it, you don't wanna lose anyone else—“

“No, I don't wanna lose _you_!”

He closes down, an immediate shutter, and Carrie knows, then, exactly what he's thinking right to the last raw element. It's like a timeline played backwards, a near-death reliving of a hundred little moments; every touch, every pissed-off shouting match, every worried frown thrown her way. Quinn's Goddamn finger on the trigger of a fucking sniper rifle aimed right at her, even.

He stands, pushing past her and walking off down the incline at the side of the road with his fists clenched and Carrie stares after him, frozen to the ground like she's sprung roots. It's a calcifying moment, grinding pieces coming together and finally making a whole.

“I wasn't—“ Quinn can't hear her, her voice is squeezed too small.

 _I wasn't trying to manipulate you, not like that, never like that_.

It's true, it's so Goddamn true; losing Quinn feels like a lance through her ribcage, impossible to breathe around, and it's like every single time he said no to her multiplied by a thousand, the thought of living this messed up life without him in it. It's all too tangled up with the lifelong dull acknowledgement that she'll be alone forever, of having known Quinn and all the ways they understand each other, and Carrie can't grip the cut, dangling edges of her thoughts and piece them back together quickly enough.

“For Christ's sake, Quinn,” she yells, the words splitting at that volume. She can't sustain it, doesn't have the energy anymore, so she follows him, keeping a safe distance. “I know I fucking exploit people for a living, but can you just give me a break, please? Maybe think a little higher of me for once, y'know, like I do you.”

Quinn breathes deep, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I'm nuts.”

Carrie throws out her arms, trying to summarize with one sweeping gesture. “Not exactly proving me wrong here.”

“I can't turn around, Carrie.”

“You can, you just won't,” she points out sharply. “And then what? You blow up Haqqani, by some miracle you get yourself back to America in one piece, and everybody shrugs their shoulders and lets you off the hook for the shit you've pulled?”

“I'm not an idiot, I know what happens afterwards.”

“Yeah, the agency takes credit for an operation they didn't even put together and says this was the plan all along, meanwhile you get quietly disappeared under the guise of being a liability.”

“It's gonna happen either way, whether I finish this or come back with you right now. Dar Adal already hit me with the threat before I got out here. I disobeyed one of the highest presidential orders, the ISI have got my face on every anti-US hit list. I'm blown in every way there is and soon everyone back home is gonna know I can't keep my shit together.” He's hard as nails, laying it all out with all the brutal efficiency of a pickaxe chipping away at her. “I'm already dead, Carrie.”

 _Fuck_.

No but—fuck.

She's shaking her head, mouth moving, grasping for words.

“It's okay, I'm over it,” he shrugs and then he's reeling back, Carrie's palm connecting with his face. “The _fuck_?”

When she can finally speak it's low and shaky. “You and me have been through some messed-up crap, but I have _never_ been more upset with you than I am right now.”

Quinn swallows, mouth going tight. “Well, that just makes it easier.”

He slips past her with a shocking finality and Carrie doesn't turn around to watch, just raises her cracking voice, “So you do have feelings for me, then?”

His footsteps scuff to a stop in the dirt and the silence is painful, on and on until he breaks it, “I shouldn't have let it get in the way, I'm sorry.”

It's not—he's supposed to get pissed, not—

It's like a hand inside her, a vice-grip around her wrung-out heart, and after everything she finally buckles, arms crossing up over her chest and vision stinging and Quinn's soft, panicked voice, “Carrie?” when he has no Goddamn right at all.

She thinks she's gonna hit the ground but he's there just like he's always fucking _there_ , like she can't get rid of his constant watchful presence and when she does she can't stand it. Quinn's chest pressed against her back, his arms tight around her and crossing over her own. He's the only thing keeping her upright but she still struggles, too fucking furious to not fight with him but there's only so much Carrie can rail against a thing she wants, and she does—hopeless, eviscerating fact; she craves Quinn's proximity like an addict right now. Like he's the last string of reality to cling to.

She's bowed forward, hair falling over her face, and Quinn wraps himself around her, his mouth against her ear, “Shit,” rough and whispered. His fingers dig hard in her shoulders, another hand panicked around the curve of her ribs, and he feels so fucking good, all of him crushed as close as he can be.

Carrie drags him down to their knees in the dirt, Quinn bracketing her between his legs. He doesn't let her go, not for one second, and it's a surprise and then it's not; she's torn between the best and the worst of him.

Tears cling in her hair and the muscles in her stomach seize; she's had enough of holding it together, it's Quinn's fucking turn again.

“Goddamn it, Carrie,” he grinds out, words hitching with his stuttering in-and-out breath against her back.

She asks, “Why are you fucking doing this?” Not even sure what she means, Quinn's one-man mission or this ridiculous display by the side of the road.

His hand on her shoulder shifts, fingertips brushing against her throat. Quinn pulling his arm over her head to sweep the hair off the back of her neck, pressing the words there with his mouth, “Because it's right. You know it's right. They killed Fara, and John, and Hensley, and they will _never_ pay for that.” Carrie shivers, Quinns' arm slipping back around her. “I can't let it stand.”

She turns her head against her shoulder and he instantly cups her jaw to hold her there, fingers threading into her hair. All the reticence in him vanished, foot entirely off the brake now; this is Quinn is his most raw form and he's like a hurricane trapped in a jar, tightly wound, unwavering force that Carrie's so personally and fundamentally intimate with in her own self.

She honestly thinks he's gonna kiss her and she's ready to let it happen, pour some of this grief and resentment into him, this absolute hopelessness that's only ever touched the very worst parts of her life because he's _right_ , the ones lying back on the Embassy floor covered in plastic fucking sheets will never get the resolution they deserve.

But he doesn't. Quinn rests his chin on her shoulder, nudging his nose against her cheek, but that's it, just that single gentle action that's at odds with the rest of him. She presses her own shaking hand over his, touching her fingers to the disturbing new scars on his knuckles.

And then Carrie kisses him instead. Just the brush of her mouth over his and he breaks it straight away, noise ripped out of him like a broken curse. He tucks his face down against her shoulder and breathes, ragged, “Don't fucking do that.”

“I want to.”

Also the truth, and she doesn't question where it comes from like she doesn't question where most of her needs come from. They just are and Carrie's whole life is a testament to her impulses. It's a fact she's becoming increasingly more aware of.

“Quinn?“

She's struck with the vague mechanical notion that she should've called him Peter—more intimate, more chance of appealing—and then it's gone in a frantic heartbeat, crushed down under how real he is to her, how his name comes from a far more honest place than that. Maybe Quinn thinks so too, or maybe he's just sick of holding back this one last thing when all the rest of him is already chasing the storm, because he finally kisses her.

It's an awkward angle but Quinn's mouth is sweet and hot, as good as she thought it'd be and she _has_ thought about, but it's not enough, feels like she's making a half-assed point here.

Carrie twists in the bracket of his body, curled up close and small against him to get at his mouth, get her hands in his hair. Quinn's tongue slicking into her mouth, his teeth careful in her bottom lip, his fingers splayed wide and possessive over her back; a long, long minute of just that, shameless and unbelievable.

He mouths at the corner of her lips, down over her jaw, making a fist in her hair and pulling to get at her throat, and he mutters into her skin, “This your idea of a goodbye?”

She lets him go at her for a while, it feels pretty fucking amazing, but eventually Carrie pulls back to catch his eye, bright and surprisingly sharp against the soft damp vulnerability of his mouth.

It's a sight she isn't wholly prepared for—about as much as she expected to be making out with Quinn today in the first place—and Carrie's brain is still caught somewhere yielding and wet, she's a little slow at getting her thoughts back in order. Vital, life-altering thoughts. Carrie's blood is pumping now, wakening synapses firing up.

“If we're gonna go after Haqqani, we're gonna do it right.”

Quinn blows out a breath, “Fuck.”

“We're gonna need some kind of backup, something to make this legit. And I'm not going anywhere with you unless you agree that when we get back to Washington, I take the responsibility.”

“Carrie—“ There it is, Quinn's unrestrainable defiance; she can kiss him at the side of the Goddamn road, lay unsure little pieces of herself at his feet, but apparently he's still gonna fight her at every turn regardless.

“No, not _Carrie._ ” This isn't a conversation she can have pressed against him like this, so she untangles herself, standing and offering him a hand. “I do all the talking and you shut the fuck up and nod your head when commanded, that's the deal, no compromise.”

Quinn glares, eyes narrow, but he takes her hand anyway, hauling up to his feet and brushing off the dust. “Now, or later?”

“Preferably both but I know that's asking a lot from you, so later. When we get home. Preferably in one piece.”

He purses his mouth, a little petulant but that's par for the course at this point. The important thing is he's considering the terms.

Carrie goes on, “We tell them this was my operation, and that as your superior I involved you and used your absence from the evacuation as an excuse to stay in Pakistan. Nobody needs to know you went AWOL.”

“What about Lockhart?”

“He wants these motherfuckers' heads on a platter as much as we do, so long as there's no more glaring screw-ups I can convince him.”

“Jesus, Carrie,” Quinn groans. “How much shit are you gonna take for this?”

He says _this_ , but Carrie thinks partly he means _me._ It's a good question, one she's gonna need to consider, because Quinn has feelings for her and she can still feel the ache of his mouth on hers, and now they're going off the radar together and she wouldn't be here in the first place if he wasn't worth it.

“Well, nobody's gonna drive me out to a hole in the woods and put a bullet in my head so probably less shit than you.” She cocks her head, studying him, letting his determination bleed into her own, the fuzzy lines and streaking colors of her thoughts focus into something clarified. “You're right, this is the right thing to do, and I've risked my life for less worthy causes than this before.”

“And you will again.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see,” she says dryly. “Saul told me to be very careful, so I'm gonna tell you the same,” and then more serious, “And Quinn, I need you to remember that losing you is _not an option_. Not for me. Tell me you understand that.”

He nods, accepting for now but wide-eyed, looking so young it kind of hurts.

“Okay,” Carrie nods, trying out a smile, mainly for Quinn but it helps steel the final bit of her resolve. “I have a someone north of here. It's a good place to reach out, get our shit together.”

She tosses her head back in the direction of the car and Quinn follows, asking questions already, “Is that smart?”

“He won't be any trouble, trust me.”

“Haqqani has the list of assets, he might not even be breathing.”

Carrie can't help it, the smirk she slants him, and he rounds the car to the driver door looking puzzled.

“He's not an asset, I'm blackmailing him.”

There's a silence and then Quinn snorts. He folds his arms over the car roof, a slow lopsided smile aimed her way, shaking his head like he can't believe she's real.

“Thank fuck you're on my side, Carrie.”

She grins. Sun on the back of her neck, a purpose for the actionable future, and a hefty dose of laser-focused anxiety. And Quinn sharing it all, grinning right back at her across the car roof.

 

 

 


End file.
